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August, 1940
Steve pats at the cut on his cheek with a wet washcloth, and frowns when the fabric comes away bloody. He can’t believe he’s still bleeding. From his nose, too, and onto the sleeve of his jacket and down the front as well. It’s been at least an hour since he stumbled home from that fight with Billy O’Neil and the rest of his gang. If Bucky sees him like this--
Speak of the devil. The front door swings open, and there stands Bucky, dripping. He flips the hood of his jacket back, toes off his shoes, and only then looks over to notice Steve by the wall, holding a bloody washcloth. There are bags under his eyes that only seem to deepen when he sighs.
“Steve--” he says, and reaches for him. Steve presses himself against the wall and turns away. He doesn’t want to see Bucky’s expression.
“Don’t,” he says bitterly. “It was nothing.” Cool fingers touch his cheek, and Steve resists the urge to press into them.
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” says Bucky, voice low. He tilts Steve’s face towards him, and Steve gets the full brunt of Bucky’s concern. He looks exhausted, and here Steve is, only making more problems for him. “Who did this?”
“Don’t worry about it,” says Steve, pushing past him and laying the washcloth down by their sink. “How was work?”
Bucky sighs again, and Steve can hear him unzipping the grey hoodie. “Cold,” is all that he offers. “Is that soup?”
“Yeah,” says Steve, and he absently stirs the pot. “Mr. McGraw at the grocers was going to throw the beaten up vegetables to the dogs, but I got there first.” He turns to try and smile at Bucky, then winces when his grin pulls at the cut on his cheek. To cover it up, he keeps talking. “Mostly water, but maybe next time he’ll offer up one of the dented Campbell’s cans. I’m painting his sign out front next week for payment.”
“Did he ask you to do that, or did you volunteer?” says Bucky wryly, hanging up his hoodie and sitting down on their beat-up couch. Steve turns back to the soup.
“We don’t need charity,” he says stiffly. “It’s not right to take and give nothing in return when you have something to give.” Bucky sighs. “Would you quit that?”
“Oh, so what, I’m not allowed to sigh anymore?” says Bucky sulkily. Steve bangs the spoon against the side of the pot. They both sit in silence for a while.
When Steve takes a sip and judges dinner to be ready, Bucky grabs two chipped bowls from the cupboard. They eat on top of a board placed atop their bathtub--true tenement living.
“I got a job at the Horn and Hardt nearby,” Steve offers finally. His last job was erratic--drawing small cartoons for a little magazine to put besides their stories--and it hardly paid well. “I think Ms. Silverstein put in a good word for me with her son, who’s a manager.”
Instead of looking pleased, Bucky frowns. “Do they give you a chair at all?” he asks.
“It’s just bussing tables,” says Steve curtly. “I’ll be fine, Buck.” He looks down at his soup. “It’s not like we don’t need the money.”
“I just don’t want to see you getting overworked,” Bucky tries.
“Oh yeah, like you?” Steve snaps. “The only reason you bought that damn hoodie was so you could work longer in the warehouses when it got cold without freezing your arms off. You think I like seeing you come back here, shivering? If I could just--” He bangs a fist on the table in frustration, then winces. Soup swirls sideways in the bowls.
“Alright,” says Bucky, holding up his hands in a placating manner. “Alright. I’m glad you got the job, okay? And they’d be out of their minds if they didn’t promote you to cashier real quick anyway.”
“You were always better than me at math,” says Steve. “So don’t go trying to butter me up that way. Did you take on more hours again?” Because Bucky’s been coming home later than usual the past couple of days.
Bucky looks uncomfortable, and drops his gaze. “Fred likes me,” is the only response he gives.
Steve scowls. “The next person here to get sick ain’t gonna be me, it’s gonna be you,” he declares.
“Aw, it’s summer,” says Bucky. “I’m going to be fine.” He grins across the table at Steve, and despite himself, Steve can’t help but smile back. Even though he’s still mad--no, mainly worried.
Before they go to bed that night, Bucky disappears out the door and returns with rubbing alcohol. “Hey--” Steve protests as Bucky backs him up against the bed, forcing him to sit down. “I already cleaned--”
“Not well enough,” says Bucky, holding Steve’s chin in one hand and dabbing at the cut with the other. Steve closes his eyes briefly at the tender touch, and then forces them open again to study Bucky’s face. He looks like he’s concentrating, like he’s unaware of how close they are to each other in the moment. ”This should help stop infection.”
As Bucky finishes up, and moves his hand away, Steve reaches up to wrap his own fingers around Bucky’s wrist. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
Bucky looks at him with a little bit of surprise. “You’re welcome.”
A few weeks later, in the midst of their wet and hot summer, Bucky takes Steve to Coney Island. Steve’s still holding onto his automat job, even though the long hours of staying standing hurt his back and the arches of his feet. But he’s got a little bit of extra change now, something he never has really had before, and Bucky was excited to make up for passed missed opportunities. Steve was laid up for his birthday so they didn’t go, and Bucky’s birthday was too cold, so they’re making up for it now.
Steve brings his sketchbook so he can doodle on the train--some serious portraits, like the man with the hat down over his eyes across from them, and Bucky’s hands, and the curve of Bucky’s jaw, but when Bucky starts to take an interest, he resorts to sketches of various dinosaurs rampaging through the streets of Brooklyn. He takes a few requests from Bucky--”Do a pterodactyl!” and the whole thing takes on a life of its own. By the time they spill out onto the train station platform, they’re already laughing fit to burst.
It’s beautiful out. Finally hot and dry, with clear blue skies and a gentle breeze that blows in whenever it feels like you’re close to melting. There are plenty of other people around, but strolling with Bucky down the boardwalk, Steve almost feels like he’s in a world of his own--just the two of them, in their own bubble.
Bucky tries his hand at a shooting game, and even though it’s clearly rigged, manages to win a stuffed bear. He hands it triumphantly to Steve, with much joking, but Steve still has to fight to keep from blushing. It doesn’t mean anything , he tells himself fiercely, no matter how much you wish it does.
They blow some more money on a couple carnival games until they give up and get hot dogs.
“Wanna do the Cyclone after this?” Bucky says to Steve as they stand near the beach, wind ruffling his dark locks. He grins, happy and free-spirited. Steve laughs.
“No way ,” he says. “Anything but that.”
Bucky doesn’t tease any further, merely smiles and throws his free arm around Steve’s shoulders. “C’mon then,” he says declaratively. “It’s gorgeous, let’s swim.”
Neither of them have true bathing suits, so they just roll up their pants and wade in, careful to leave their books behind on the sand. Steve’s bear sits besides their stuff, cheerful. Bucky bends over, dips his hands in the salt water, and then splashes his face before running his hands through his hair.
Steve laughs. “You’ve got a bit of--” he says, and then reaches up on his toes to pluck a strand of seaweed out of Bucky’s hair. Bucky looks startled, and then laughs as well when Steve dangles the green thing in front of him. Steve flings it at him, and then almost topples sideways as a big wave washes in, knocking him off balance as the momentum of his gesture carries him forward. Bucky grabs him before he goes right over, and they both laugh some more.
They wander up and down the seabed looking for shells, and when they tire of that, Steve builds a sandcastle while Bucky tans himself under the sun. He looks beautiful--long clean lines, and handsome face, the body of a grown man. Steve looks in short bursts, wary of anyone catching him staring. But sometimes it’s hard to tear his eyes away.
Bucky wakes up groggy, but not groggy enough that he can’t convince Steve to grab dinner before they head back home.
“Anything but the automat,” Steve says. “I’ve been spending too much time there already.”
Bucky smiles and ruffles his hair. Steve lets him get away with it for a couple of seconds, before rolling away and almost crushing the castle he worked so hard on. They both roll down their pants and dust themselves off, before going to Childs Restaurant.
“We can’t afford--” Steve starts to protest, but Bucky waves him off. They order cheaply, and find themselves able to pay the bill at the end. Bucky smiles at Steve as they walk out, jingling the few coins he still has in his pocket. The sun has just begun to sink over the horizon.
“This was fun,” Steve offers. “Did you have a good time, Buck?”
“You betcha,” says Bucky, looking at Steve, and then out and away, back towards the beach. “Hey, you suppose your sandcastle is still there?”
Steve shrugs. It doesn’t matter. He barely remembers what it looks like, can only picture Bucky’s body laid out beside the brown sand. “I’ll build a new one next time.”
September, 1940
Bucky and Steve both somehow manage to get off for Rebecca’s first day of school, so they pick her up at the Barnes residence. Winnifred opens the door, and seems almost surprised to see the two of them there.
“Jamie,” she says warmly, and then after a moment’s pause, “Steve too. You’re both taking Rebecca to school today?”
“Yes ma’am,” says Steve. “Is she ready?”
Leaning past Steve and his mother, Bucky shouts into the apartment. “Becca!” he hollars.
“Coming!” she yells back, and soon appears in the doorway, right behind the skirts of her mother. She beams up at the two of them, and Steve is surprised to see how much she’s grown. Her hair is braided in one long strand down her back, and she’s nearly his height--though that isn’t exactly saying much.
“Where’s Pa?” Bucky asks his mother. “Looking for a job?”
Winnifred frowns slightly. “James, you know your father’s not well, and--” She hesitates, as if she was unsure of where her sentence was going. “And I have to get back to laundering. Take your sister to school so we can be sure she gets there. It’s a new building--”
“Don’t worry Ma, she’ll get there safely,” says Bucky, and with a final nod, Winnifred closes the door on the three of them.
Instantly, Rebecca begins complaining. “I don’t see why you have to walk me to school,” she complains. “I’m going to be doing it on my own for the rest of the year, and it’s embarrassing. Just ‘cause I’ve never been to this building doesn’t mean I don’t know where it is.”
Bucky affects a hurt look. “Oh, so you don’t want to spend more time with me?”
Becca swats at him. “You know that isn’t what I mean.” Steve chuckles. “Are you going to break fast with us for Yom Kippur?”
Bucky’s face goes blank. “I don’t know, Becca,” he says. “I haven’t been to synagogue in awhile, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know ‘cause Ma and Pa aren’t exactly happy with you,” shoots back Becca. “But you know they’d want you there. And you’re going to fast, right?”
Bucky glances at Steve, who doesn’t know what to say. He and Bucky had both stopped regularly attending church and temple, respectively, once they had a place of their own together. Steve had never volunteered his reasons, and neither had Bucky, but the once weekly visits had trickled down to every other week, then once a month, and then hardly at all for the holidays. Plus--with the amount of money they’re making--some days are close to fast days, without religious reason.
“Yeah,” says Bucky finally. “I’ll be there for apples and honey too.”
Rebecca nods, satisfied. “That’ll get ‘em off your back.” She skips ahead a couple steps, and then dawdles to let the two boys catch up. “Steve can come too, if he wants.”
“Becca, I don’t think--” Bucky says, in a warning tone of voice. Steve interrupts him.
“Thank you for the invitation, but I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says, smiling at Becca. He considers saying a word or two about the fact that he wouldn’t be fasting, but then decides it wouldn’t make a difference, and keeps his mouth shut.
They all, without consciously agreeing to it, let the subject drop. For the next couple of blocks, Bucky needles Becca about her hair, dress, and habits, and Becca bites right back. Steve can’t help but smile fondly at the two of them. They really are a pair, the two Barneses, in look and manner.
The leave Rebecca at the front door of the same school they both attended years back, and spend a moment dawdling on the sidewalk.
“Remember when you dumped your milk all over Jerry Hutchinson’s head?” asks Bucky, grinning.
“He was making fun of Helena, who couldn’t help the fact she had buck teeth!” Steve protests immediately, even though he knows Bucky’s only bringing it up to annoy him. “You would have done the same if you were there. Only you--” And here he points accusingly at Bucky. “--were at home, suspended because you punched Henry Dawson again and gave him his second black eye.”
“I also gave him the first. And I’ll do it a third time if he comes after you like that again,” says Bucky. Steve just rolls his eyes. He’s pretty sure Henry Dawson moved away from their corner of Brooklyn a while back, but for once, he’s not going to call Bucky out on his over-the-top protective instincts.
“Shit,” Bucky sighs to himself after a moment. He says it quietly enough that Steve knows he wasn’t meant to hear, but they’re standing too close, and Bucky’s put himself on Steve’s good side. Steve knows Bucky sometimes wishes he had kept going to school, instead of dropping out like he did in order to make money for himself and his family. Steve, disgustingly selfish, is glad of it. He was never a star in school not like Bucky, and was happy enough to drop out alongside him. He’s selfishly glad, though sometimes it makes him sick inside, that it all worked out like it did so he could end up sharing a room with Bucky. Living with Bucky. Even though that too, sometimes makes him feel sick inside.
Bucky jostles him out of his own head by throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders. He grins, and Steve does his best to smile back. “C’mon, Stevie. Let’s head back.”
Willingly, Steve follows.
When Steve has some free time, he goes to the nearby park. A small, sad patch of green used intermittently by the neighborhood kids and amorous couples, it’s got the only trees Steve sees on a regular basis. So he uses them for drawing practice.
This time, he’s picked the wrong day. Fall is slowly setting in, and Steve hasn’t been out for more than five minutes before he starts shivering. Still, he’s fully immersed in his drawing and loathe to stop in the middle of it. What harm could five more minutes do?
Five more minutes turns to ten, and then twenty, as several boys tumble onto the green to engage in a game that looks like a mix of baseball and soccer. Steve can’t help but to try and catch their moving forms, blurring pencil lines and dashing their swiftness across the page. A cough catches him by surprise. And then another, and another. The sun starts to set, and as Steve stumbles back to the Brooklyn apartment, he can’t stop. It’s a dry, hacking cough. After he climbs the flights of stairs up to their door, he pauses, trying to catch his breath before he has to open the door and face Bucky.
He needn’t have worried. Inside, the room is the same as it was when he left two hours or so ago. Steve drinks a glass of tap water standing up at the kitchen sink before setting to work on dinner. They have potatoes, and hot dogs, but no onions. Steve frowns at the bare cupboards, and tries to push his job anxieties aside for the moment. He peels three of the potatoes and cubes them, before dropping them into a pan with just the smallest bit of oil. He coughs even harder as he waits for the cubes to soften. Then he slices two hot dogs and throws in the small circles. It’s only a few more minutes until they’re cooked, so Steve scoops himself a portion and sets the rest aside for Bucky when he returns. If he returns. He doesn’t do it often, but sometimes--Bucky will go out and not return until the next morning. Or even just go straight to work from the girl’s place he’s found himself in, and only come back to Steve in the late afternoon. Steve can’t stand it. He hates seeing Bucky’s in yesterday’s clothes and knowing why he didn’t come. It’s a thought he doesn’t like to examine much and now he sets it aside in favor of the worrying cough. After choking down as much of the dinner as he can stand, Steve snags a asthma cigarette from the cabinet and crawls out the window to the fire escape. It’s even colder now, with the sun gone.
He smokes the whole thing, letting the white stick dangle from his fingertips every now and then so he can cough, harsh and low. When it’s burnt down to the end, Steve lets the butt drop from his fingers to the metal bars. His feet are bare, so he can stomp it out, but he watches carefully as the light dims, and finally fades away. He stares out at the city for a moment, searching out the lights in the building across. Looking for the solitary figure of a young man stumbling home. He sees nothing but strangers. After a moment of allowing himself to fall prey to what can only be termed as ennui, Steve climbs back into the apartment and shuts the window behind him. He feels drowsy, and loose, but he’s still coughing. So he makes his way to the bedroom, where his cot and Bucky’s cot have been pushed together in preparation for the cooler weather. Steve drags a hand across his face and turns his back to the beds to undress. After bending down to take his pants off, Steve has to lean against the wall and cough long and hard. It leaves him shaking and he crawls into bed, collapsing with hopes of restful sleep and a morning arriving without illness.
Instead of the morning, Steve wakes up in the middle of the night, when a heavy object is placed over him. He’s curled into fetal pose, and as he unwinds from it, his body protests, and another coughing fit descends. He’s just lucid enough to feel the bed shift as a body sits down beside him, and a hand touches his forehead.
“Hey, Stevie,” says Bucky’s voice quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“Peachy,” Steve croaks out, and then realizes what Bucky has laid on top of him. “Bucky,” he protests, lifting a arm to grab at the sleeve of Bucky’s hoodie. “You need this.”
Bucky chuckles softly. “Not right now, bud,” he says. “I don’t have work until the morning.”
“You can’t forget it,” says Steve, and he can tell by the way his eyes begin to tear up that he’s not well at all. “You have to remember it when you go--you’ll freeze in the warehouse, you can’t freeze--” He breaks off to cough again. He turns to look at Bucky’s face and for a moment, sees it blue with frostbite. Then he blinks, and the image is gone.
“I won’t forget it,” Bucky reassures him, obviously registering Steve’s distress. “But you’ve gotta stay warm too, alright?” Almost absentmindedly, he strokes a hand through Steve’s hair. Steve pushes up into his palm, and there’s a slight pause before Bucky continues. “Just sleep, Stevie.”
Steve wants to ask where Bucky was, and what time it is, and whether Bucky ate the dinner Steve left out. But he’s tired, and in pain, and he’s warm under the sheets and Bucky’s hoodie. Before he can vocalize any of his questions, he’s drifting off, Bucky’s fingers still in his hair.
In the morning, Steve wakes up, not feeling much better, but not feeling much worse. Bucky’s hoodie is gone, but the sheets on Bucky’s side of the bed are folded over so that Steve lies beneath four layers, and not two. He crawls his way out of bed and staggers into the rest of the apartment. A glass of water sits on the counter, and Steve touches it. Ice cold.
He takes it and scrambles through the fire escape, leaning over it just in time to see Bucky round the corner and disappear, out of sight. Under his arm is his hoodie.
October, 1940
In the midst of the monotony and the stress comes Halloween. Mr. Silverstein lets Steve off for the afternoon, and Steve spends it sewing the pockets back onto Bucky’s nice pants. He’s still at it when Bucky comes strolling through the door, whistling.
“Aw, Stevie,’ he whines when he sees what Steve’s doing. “I told you I was going to do that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” says Steve, smiling up at Bucky. “It was a pretty easy job. See?” He finishes the last knot off, and holds the pants up for Bucky’s inspection. As Bucky takes them, he ruffles Steve’s hair. Steve ducks away and laughs.
“Those fingers are too clever for your own good,” says Bucky teasingly. He folds the pants easily, and then pauses. “Any plans for the night?”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You know I don’t have any,” he says, and then sighs. “I feel bad that we don’t have anything to give out, though.”
Bucky raises his eyebrow. “No one’s going to be knocking on our front door,” he says. He may have a point. “So I was thinking. Jones was telling me about this bar that goes crazy for Halloween. And it’s mandatory dress-up. So--” he waggles his eyebrows, and out of his pockets, produces two black eye masks. “We’ll both go as Zorro.”
“We can’t both go as Zorro!” protests Steve, but he’s already leaning forward to take one of the masks. It’s of cheap material, but not flimsy. “We don’t have the hat or the sword.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “We’ll be Zorro in the midst of a costume change. Come on, Steve. Please. It’s Halloween!” He pulls the mask down over his own eyes and stands in the classic sword fighting pose.
He looks better than Zorro--stronger and slighter, with that cocky grin and twinkling eyes. Steve wants to draw him. Wants to keep him there in that pose, in their apartment, in his bed. He stands up to dispel the image, and clutches his own mask.
“Let’s do it,” he says. “Should be fun, right?”
Bucky grins, smooth and clear. “I knew you’d come around.”
The bar is tucked in between a pharmacy and a bakery, both closed. At first glance, it doesn’t even look like a bar, just steps leading down to a dark blue door.
Steve bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s. “Are you sure about this?”
Bucky glances down at him with a small smile. “Jonesy is a good guy. I’m sure he wouldn’t lead us astray.”
The door is unlocked, and leads into a small hallway. A large man stands before the second door at the end of the hallway. He gives them the once over and asks, “Two Zorros?”
“Twice the charm,” says Bucky, flashing his stunning grin. The guy grunts and swings open the door.
Inside is an already crowded dance floor, men and women alike hopping and gliding. Bucky pulls him around the edge of the club and over to the bar in the corner, lit by neon lights. He orders for the both of them, and passes Steve his drink when it comes.
It’s not long before Bucky disappears to dance with some gal, and Steve sequesters himself on a stool against the wall. He’s dragged out to the dance floor twice, but is mainly content to remain where he is, watching Bucky spin across the room like a star. Like some sort of god, Steve thinks to himself. He knows it’s blasphemy, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.
Bucky dances with one girl, then another, then another. He gets stuck between two, laughing and throwing his head back so that his hair, so carefully gelled, falls gently across his face. At that point, Steve can’t take it anymore. He leaves his glass on the stool and walks out. He jogs down the hallway, taking off the mask and shoving it into his back pocket as he bursts into the night.
Steve slows to a stroll as he reaches the end of the sidewalk, and tries to swallow everything down. He knows Bucky doesn’t see him that way. The problem is, he sees Bucky in that way. And he’s terrified that one day Bucky is going to find out and leave him. Steve’s imagined it so many times. The look on Bucky’s face. The door slamming closed, Bucky walking out of the apartment for the last time. He shivers, and ducks his head lower as he stalks down the street.
He doesn’t see the men until he literally slams right into them. Steve stumbles back, looking up.
“Watch where you’re going,” snarls the bigger of the two men, bearded and red-haired. The other man, taller but not bearded, crosses his arms over his chest and glares.
“Didn’t realize the street was yours,” Steve shoots back, before he’s even really sure what’s about to come out of his mouth.
The men don’t seem to like that much, judging by the way Beard grabs the collar of Steve’s shirt and throws him up against the nearest wall. Steve gasps as the air gets knocked out of him, and starts coughing.
“Don’t think a fag like you can talk to us like that,” says Beard. While maybe not the brains of the operation, he’s certainly the leader. He lands one punch straight into Steve’s stomach, and then Tall goes after him.
Steve fights back. Of course he does. Once you start running, you’ll never stop. And maybe it’s not the more righteous of his fights, but Steve will be damned if he’s just going to stand there and take it.
Eventually, when he’s spitting blood, and on his hands and knees, they get tired of him. One of them--Steve can’t look up to see--lands a kick to his ribs and then the two of them wander off, laughing mockingly. Steve is burning, with rage and with pain, but he’s coughing too hard to speak and he certainly can’t get up right away. He waits it out, collapsing to his side on the road. No one comes by. It may be the middle of the night on Halloween, but this is an area where everyone’s either inside dancing, or asleep in their apartments. No trick-or-treaters are wandering down this street. Steve just got unlucky.
He sometimes wonders if that should be the title of his memoir; Unlucky . Bucky would likely argue Steve the Stupid Idiot or maybe Steve, The Punk.
In more ways than one , Steve thinks to himself, not for the first time. He would laugh, if he wasn’t sure he would just spit up more blood.
Eventually, he stands. Or rather, he staggers to his feet. He wonders where Bucky is. He starts walking.
Bucky catches up to Steve about two blocks away from their tenement. Steve hears him before he sees him--shoes slapping on the pavement give it away.
“Steve,” says Bucky, not even breathless. “Where did you--” he stops, presumably seeing the wet spot on Steve’s black shirt, marking where he’s bleeding from what Steve assumes is a large scrape. “Jesus Christ, I leave you alone for one minute, and you go and get in a fight. Next time we’re hosting Halloween, d’ya hear me? No, let me see--” Bucky is tugging at the end of Steve’s shirt, trying to untuck it from his shirt. Steve twists away and stumbles forward.
“Don’t,” Steve grits out. “We’re in the middle of the block.”
“Your face,” says Bucky, and places a cool hand on Steve’s cheek. Steve freezes in place as Bucky’s eyes track over him. At some point, he too had taken off the Zorro mask. His eyes are so very bright. “Who did this to you?”
“They didn’t exactly give me their names before they put their fists in my stomach,” says Steve, and Bucky’s face hardens. Steve feels a sick thrill at that. Bucky’s angry. Bucky’s angry for Steve, he’s angry because Steve is his and he doesn’t want anyone hurting what’s his.
Which is maybe sort of a messed up way to think about it. But Steve’s had a rough night, and at this point, he couldn’t care less. As long as he doesn’t say anything out loud.
“Let’s get you home, alright bud?” says Bucky, and slings Steve’s right arm over his shoulders, so he’s standing on Steve’s uninjured side and Steve can lean on him for support. Steve considers not bending to Bucky’s will. He’s walked home hurt real bad before, and he’s sure he’ll do it again. He’s bluffed to Bucky about how hurt he’s been before--sometimes successfully.
But Bucky already knows he’s injured. Bucky’s already planning to take care of him. Jesus, is Steve an unwanted burden or what?
“Sorry,” Steve mumbles as they walk. “Ruined your night.” His bottom lip has started to go a bit numb.
Beside him, Bucky lets out a soft sigh. He doesn’t reply. Steve takes this as confirmation and turns his face away. Guilt and shame--and yeah, a bit of anger too--well up in him, and he doesn’t want Bucky to see. He’s already hurt him enough.
November, 1940
“Are you going to your parents’ for Thanksgiving?” asks Steve as casually as he can. It’s Sunday, and he and Bucky had gone out grocery shopping earlier. Bucky had off work, and had wanted to come along, though it’s an activity Steve usually does on his own. They had to cut it short--which doesn’t mean much, they haven’t the money for a lot of food anyway--because Steve’s back had started to act up.
It’s been bad ever since he was young, but he’s usually more pain-free there than not. But this job, with all the standing, has taken a toll on him. He hasn’t been promoted to cashier yet, and therefore doesn’t get a real chance to sit down. Currently, he’s lying on it, in the patch of sunlight streaming through the window, trying to doodle in his sketchpad. It’s not a particularly effective way of doing things.
Bucky is in their lone padded chair, presumably doing the crossword, but more likely daydreaming. Steve hears him squirm, even though he can’t see him from his horizontal position on the floor.
“Becca wants me to,” he says, which isn’t an answer. Steve props himself up on his elbows, biting down on a groan of pain, to see Bucky’s face. The slight downward slant of his eyebrows give him away.
“They didn’t invite me, did they,” says Steve. It’s less of a question than a dull realization.
“I told them last year--” starts Bucky, sitting upright. Steve cuts him off.
“You should go,” he says, lying back down and closing his eyes. “If Becca wants you there, you should go.”
“What if I don’t want to be there,” mutters Bucky.
“You shouldn’t not go just because I wasn’t invited,” says Steve. “They’re your family. They want to see you.”
“They should want to see both of us. You’re my best friend, Steve, i’m not leaving you to eat Thanksgiving dinner alone .”
“Who says I’d be eating it alone?” Steve tries to joke, finally clambering to a seated position. He hugs his knees to his chest and stares Bucky down. “And I’m not their son. You’re their son. And I’m not your girl either, so it’s not like I expect an invitation.” He hopes the last bit doesn’t sound as bitter as he feels.
Bucky’s brow furrows further. “I’m not going and leaving you here to rot,” he says stubbornly. “It’s not fair. Ma’s known you for years, and liked you before--” He stops abruptly.
Steve knows what he was going to say; before we moved in together . The Barnes’ were happy to see their son leave their home, but less than thrilled over the reason. George and Winifred--but especially Winifred--have made no secret of the fact that they hoped Bucky would be married and settled at this point. They see Steve as an obstacle to that eventuality. Steve won’t argue with that--Bucky’s lost two jobs because he refused to leave Steve’s bedside during an illness.
“You’ve gotta go,” says Steve. “C’mon, Buck. They love you.”
“Yeah,” says Bucky, turning away from Steve to look out their window. “I know.”
Bucky doesn’t go to his parents’ for Thanksgiving. He and Steve don’t discuss it any further, but when Bucky brings home a tiny raw chicken two days before, Steve assumes he’s talked to his parents. Or rather, not talked to them, as the case may be. Steve gets off from work late, but he still manages to get the chicken cooked, along with peas and baked apples for dessert, before Bucky gets home.
Bucky looks pleasantly surprised at the set table, and lit candles, and bundles Steve into a bear hug as he comes around the edge to set down a glass of water in front of Bucky’s seat.
“Hey,” Steve protests, smiling. Bucky just pulls back and ruffles his hair.
“I got myself a nice housewife,” he jokes, and Steve kicks him in the shin. Then he turns back to the stove before Bucky can see him blush.
They settle into place and grin at each other across this table. Bucky raises his glass. “Happy Thanksgiving, Stevie,” he says solemnly.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Buck,” replies Steve, and sips his water. They dig in.
About a week after Thanksgiving, bordering on the end of November, a new tenant moves into their building, two doors down from their apartment. She’s young and pretty, with red curly hair, green eyes, and freckles dotted across her face. Bucky helps her move in as much as he can before he heads to work. Steve stumbles out of their apartment to make his way to his own job, and stumbles into the two of them chatting. Bucky’s arms are loaded with a large cardboard box, but he’s still managing to be charming.
It’s too early for this, Steve thinks sourly.
“Steve!” says Bucky brightly. “This is Frances.”
“Please,” says Frances, blushing prettily. “If we’re going to be neighbors, you’ve gotta call me Frankie.”
Steve hates her immediately. He hates the way she bats her eyes. He hates the way Bucky’s leaning in close to her. He hates the way she’s not backing up, but smiling up at him. He hates, hates, hates it.
“Frankie,” says Bucky, grin spreading across his face. “That’s awful cute.” Frankie laughs. Steve hates her more.
It only gets worse from there.
“She’s a nurse in training,” Bucky says. And Steve can’t take it anymore.
“I’ve got to head to work,” he says gruffly, and turns away from the simpering couple. He hears Bucky call out after him as he stomps down the hall, but he elects, viciously, to ignore it.
December, 1940
It gets worse. Sometimes, when Bucky comes home, he doesn’t come straight to their apartment. He knocks on Frances’ door first, and if she’s there, he chats with her before coming triumphantly through their door, grinning. By the second week of December, they haven’t gone on a date yet, but Steve suspects it’s only a matter of time.
Steve, meanwhile, has other problems. He’s got a recurring headache that he can’t shake, and sometimes his back hurts so bad he can barely stand at work. He’s praying the manager puts him on cashier duty soon, because he doesn’t know how much more he can handle. Not that he would ever say anything. He’s always telling Bucky he’s tough, that he can handle it, and he can , it’s just--god, it really hurts sometimes.
He takes to lying down on the floor when he can, stretching his arms above his head and grasping the wooden feet of the lone comfortable chair in their living room. It’s an attempt to stretch out his back, but the problem is, Steve can’t actually hold the position for too long. And while sometimes he sits up with his pinched spine less crumpled in on itself, sometimes the pain just sinks in deeper. Steve hasn’t even begun to contemplate the idea of going to a doctor. They simply can’t afford it.
His job finishes earlier than Bucky’s most days, so Steve makes sure to time this little exercise for when Bucky isn’t home. Not that Steve doesn’t sometimes like to imagine what would happen if Bucky caught him on the floor like that, what he would do--he thinks about it furiously, red faced and ashamed. But then he would have to tell Bucky about his back, and Bucky would throw a huge fuss, and as previously stated, they don’t have the money for a consultation.
So it’s just sheer, dumb coincidence--or perhaps luck--that Bucky stumbles in from the warehouse early one Friday evening, wearing two hoodies and the tips of his hair frozen. He’s shivering visibly, and clearly hasn’t stopped to talk to Frances. He freezes when he sees Steve.
The apartment is cold, and Steve’s got three layers on, both legs and torso. Still, with his arms up above his head, the sweaters have been pulled up to reveal the smallest bit of skin between the bottom of the fabric and the top of his pants. Steve’s eyes shoot open when he hears Bucky walk through the door. He scrambles to sit up, but sharp pain shoots up his spine and with a groan, he flattens out on the ground again.
“Hey,” says Bucky, concerned, ever so concerned for him, even when it’s Bucky who looks like he’s on the edge of hypothermia this time. “What’s wrong? Is it your back again?” He comes over to crouch by Steve’s side, and places one hand on Steve’s stomach.
Steve stills. He’s incredibly aware of the placement of Bucky’s hand, not just because of the cold burning through his three layers, but because his pinky finger is hovering right over the bottom hem of Steve’s lowest hanging sweater. Almost touching skin. It’s not like Bucky hasn’t touched Steve’s bare skin before. It’s not like they haven’t seen each other naked, although mostly when they were younger. But here, with the sun slipping over the horizon, and Steve laid out on the floor, and Bucky’s eyes staring straight at him--it’s almost more than Steve can handle.
“It’s fine,” Steve manages. “It just hurt a little bit today at work, but I’m fine.” He’s lying through his teeth. He wonders if Bucky can tell.
“Right,” says Bucky, and flattens his palm over Steve’s stomach to push him down as Steve starts to get up. “Why don’t you just…” he starts to say, frustrated, and then trails off.
Perhaps he’s noticed the same thing Steve’s noticed. That in the slight shift of his hand to push Steve back down, Bucky’s palm has moved to rest more fully on Steve’s bare stomach, with his pinky finger just ducking under the waistband of Steve’s trousers.
Bucky swallows, hard. His adam’s apple bobs, and Steve traces the movement with his eyes. Carefully, oh so carefully, Steve reaches his left hand up and cradles Bucky’s cheek.
Steve’s done a lot of courageous things in his life. Stood up to bullies, to authority figures, doing his best to do what’s right and fight for the ability for everyone to be treated in the way they deserve. This, here, this uncertain, gentle touch, is perhaps the bravest thing he thinks he’s ever done.
They stay frozen there, one breath, two, a painting of uncertainty. “Buck?” asks Steve, nerves finally getting the better of him.
And that’s when Bucky tears away. He leaps up and back, and offers a wobbly smile to Steve. “I’m just gonna go--” he says, and escapes out their door. His hair has unfrozen by this point, and is beginning to drip, so droplets of it swing out behind him when the door shuts.
Steve struggles to a sitting position. Then, heedless of the pain, he pulls his legs into his chest and shoves his face into his knees. Fuck.
Bucky doesn’t come home early at all for the next two weeks. He barely comes home at all, it seems. Steve catches glimpses of him early in the morning, but otherwise, nothing. That is, until Bucky comes stumbling into their apartment at half-past midnight, drunk as a skunk. If not drunker.
Steve’s lying in bed asleep, and then he’s very suddenly awake. A crash woke him--the sound of something breaking. There’s not a weapon handy in the bedroom, but Steve’s not about to let a criminal break in and steal anything without a fight. So he swings out of bed and marches right into the next room.
He finds a broken glass, as well as Bucky, who has managed to pull the wooden board that makes their tub a table onto the floor. He must have stumbled, and reached out for the nearest thing.
“Jesus, Bucky,’ says Steve, crouching by Bucky’s side. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Heya, Stevie,” Bucky says in reply. He smiles drunkenly upwards, and starts struggling to his feet. Steve has to help him up, and the two of them stagger into the bedroom, where Steve dumps him.
“Don’t fall asleep,” warns Steve. ‘You gotta drink some water first.” He fetches a glass, and returns to find Bucky lying pretty much exactly where Steve had put him. He’s flung an arm across his eyes, and Steve gently taps it to get his attention. “You’re an idiot. Drink this.”
Bucky sways as he sits up carefully, but takes the water from Steve without much fuss. That taken care of, Steve lets his concern fade away into frustration. He sits down heavily on the side of the cot.
“Where the hell have you been this past week?” he says angrily. “Have you just been drinking? Christ, Buck, with what money? What’s wrong with you?”
“Lots of things,” slurs Bucky. “Lots. Hey. Hey. Steve.” He leans forward, intent on something, forgetting about the water in his hand. The glass tips forward, and water spills directly onto Steve’s crotch. Steve jumps up, cursing.
“Fuck!” he shouts, loudly enough that he freezes and tilts his head, waiting for one of their neighbors to bang against the wall. Nothing. Steve relaxes, and takes the now empty glass from Bucky’s hand.
“Sorry,” Bucky’s whispering now. He looks utterly distraught, an overreaction to a simple spill. “Sorry, Stevie. I’m real sorry.”
Steve’s heart hurts. He sits back down again, headless of the uncomfortable spill on his pants. He throws his free arm around Bucky’s shoulders and draws him in. Bucky goes easily, his head coming to rest on Steve’s chest. Steve can’t imagine he’s comfortable with his forehead directly on Steve’s stick-out collar bones, but Bucky just nestles deeper.
“You gotta talk to me,” Steve says. “You can’t just--leave and get drunk and stumble back here like that. What’s wrong?”
“Hypocrite,” Bucky mumbles, which, Steve supposes he deserves that. Still.
“Talk to me,” Steve says.
There’s silence for a moment. Then; “I lost my job,” says Bucky.
Steve looks down at Bucky in surprise, his nose going directly into Bucky’s hair. “What?” he says.
“I fuckn’--I fuckin’ lost the warehouse job. Fuck. He’s a goddamn asshole, you know? Fred? A dick .” Bucky loses the momentary anger quickly. “Steve. Sorry.”
Steve fights the automatic fear. The worries that come crashing down. They’re already struggling. Steve’s back is still in pain, not to mention his flat feet, poor lungs and useless immune system. He was counting on being able to take a day off or two this month, but he can’t if Bucky doesn’t have a job. He was counting on Bucky’s pay to help them make rent.
But in the moment, Steve pushes it all away, and focuses on the warmth of Bucky, his lips nearly touching Steve’s chest, and Steve’s arms around him. “It’s okay, Buck,” says Steve. “It’s going to be alright.”
They sit there in the darkness together for a while.
Two floors down, a grandmother and her daughter host a Christmas party. It’s more of a potluck than anything else, so Steve and Bucky bring a mashed potato dish, more potato than anything else. Bucky’s been able to grab some odd jobs here and there, stores always hurting for help around the holidays, but neither of them have mentioned the temporality of all this. Bucky hasn’t said anything about moving back in with his parents, or moving out without Steve, so Steve (selfishly) hasn’t brought it up either. There’s still tension between them, but that doesn’t lessen any of the other feelings Steve holds towards Bucky.
Including jealousy. Once Bucky had spilled to whole story of his firing to Steve--he got into an argument with his shift manager, Freddie, and that had been the end--he’d stopped drinking like a madman and had started looking for work instead. However, he also ended up spending more time at their apartment than before, which meant he was also visiting Frances a lot more as well.
He hasn’t brought it up. Steve hasn’t said a word, even though he wants to. Even though he’s boiling inside.
The apartment that the grandmother and her daughter live in is barely bigger than the rest of them, but its clear their neighbors have agreed to host as well, and the gathering spills out into the hallways of the ground floor. The door to the backyard is open as well, and various tenants stand on the threshold, clutching glasses and chatting. Mistletoe has been hung up, and tatty Christmas wreaths have been hung at various points.
“Not a Hanukkiah in sight,” Bucky whispers to Steve, shaking his head mournfully. Steve elbows him, but privately agrees. They live in a melting pot, and people shouldn’t be ignorant of that. A religion ignored is a people ignored.
Not like he’s going to bring that up. They might be kicked out, and then where would they be? Without the free food that’s going to make up their dinner tonight.
They say hello to the grandmother--Anya--and hand their potato dish to the daughter before mingling in the crowd. At first, Steve sticks close to Bucky, but he soon gets wrapped up in a conversation about the merits of creating unions with a man who lives on the fourth floor. Bucky disappears easily into the crowd.
Steve means to go looking for him, but he ends up in a conversation about politics, and has to drag himself away from that before he yells at the man who insists America is never going to join the war. Then a older woman insists on reciting to him her favorite recipes, because he looks like he “could use some fat on his bones”. Steve sardonically wonders what she wants him to do with the this newfound information. Eat it? He certainly will never be able to acquire filets in his lifetime.
Finally Steve manages to get away. He goes through the apartment and around the hallway, looking for Bucky, throwing nods to the tenants he recognizes. Then, finally, he spots him.
Under the mistletoe, by the backdoor. Kissing Frances.
For a moment, Steve doesn’t even see her. All he sees is Bucky. The curve of his back as he bends over, his shoulder blades pressed against his collares shirt. His hair, gelled neatly, still with strands flopping over his eyes. His long legs straight and easy, his body leaning inextricably forward.
His large, gentle hands clutching the side of Frances’ waist. Her own hand reaching up to touch his cheek. Steve sees Frances, and all of a sudden, he can’t breath. Pain ricochets up through his chest, and he bends just the slightest bit over, clutching one hand to his heart.
Bucky keeps kissing Frances. Steve opens his mouth, but what would he say? Two women stream past him, barely blink an eye at the spectacle, and Steve can’t take it. He races away, back upstairs to their apartment.
Which of course, is bare and empty. Steve shuts the door hard behind him, then leans against it, breathing heavily. He walks delicately through the room, through the next doorway and into the bedroom, where he sits by Bucky’s cot and buries his face in the sheets.
He stays like that for a long while, breathing in the scent of Bucky. He only moves when he hears the front door open. Then, Steve catapults across the room onto his own mattress and lies facing the wall, trying to keep his heart rate as even as possible.
“Steve?” Bucky says, in the smallest of whispers. Steve doesn’t respond, just shuts his eyes hard.
Bucky doesn’t try to wake him up. Instead, Steve feels Bucky lift the sheet that’s been pushed to the bottom of the bed, and lay it over him. He hears him pause for a moment, and then listens as Bucky leaves the apartment, shutting the door behind him.
January, 1941
The second week of January, Bucky finally manages to get a new job. It’s working in a factory, which immediately has Steve terrified, until Bucky rushes to reassure him it’s janitorial. He won’t be working with machines. Which of course, means less pay, which Bucky moans over, but Steve much prefers the guarantee that Bucky comes home with all of his limbs reattached. He’s heard horror stories from workers on assemblies lines, tales bad enough to have him marching in protests with them. Steve’s never crossed a picket line in his life, and he never will.
Still, the job lets the two of them breathe a sigh of relief. It also means Bucky has better hours than he did with the warehouse job, and the two of them see a lot more of each other.
Or well, they would. But Bucky has taken up with Frances.
“So,” says Steve one day, the two of them lazing around in the apartment, trying to keep warm as snow comes down heavily outside. “Frances.”
“Yup.” Bucky looks up from his book and grins goofily at Steve. Steve shivers, and buries deeper into the chair and the nest of blankets encasing him. “She’s a real swell gal. You’d like her.”
“I’m sure,” Steve mutters to himself, before clearing his throat. “You taking her out tonight?” It would be their fourth date. Steve doesn’t mean to be counting.
Bucky snorts, glancing over at the window. “In this weather? Nah. Plus, she’s working tonight.”
Steve nods understandingly. As Bucky’s hours have gotten more normal, Frances’ have gotten more hectic. Steve can’t voice why that pleases him, but it certainly does.
The two of them work and read in silence for a bit longer, before Bucky pipes up again. He nods to Steve’s sketchbook. “That reminds me,” he says. “I picked up this for you.” He wriggles around on the floor until he can get a hnd into his front jacket pocket. Steve stares, until Bucky triumphantly unearths a small blue pamphlet. “Here,” he says, and thrusts it at Steve.
It doesn’t take long to figure out what the pamphlet is advertising. “No,” says Steve, handing the thing back to Bucky. “First of all, there’s no way they’d take me. I’m not good enough for college.”
“First of all,” Bucky counters. “You are good enough. You think you’d get those drawing gigs if you weren’t? Yeah, folks want to see bad art on their advertisements. Didn’t you read it? It says they’ll take you as long as you pay--”
“Yeah, as long as you pay,” interrupts Steve. “Buck, we don’t have the money for this.”
Bucky scowls down at his book. “We can get the money,” he says stiffly. “You deserve to have--”
“It ain’t about what I deserve to have,” Steve says, frustrated now. “It’s about what we’ve got. If anyone deserves to go to college it’s you, but--”
“Don’t start in on that,” snaps Bucky. “I made my choice. I gotta support my family, and I gotta support you--”
“No you don’t!” Steve snaps. “I can take care of myself.”
“Oh yeah, and you’ve been doing such a bang up job of that!” Bucky jumps to his feet as he shouts.
“I didn’t fucking ask you to leave everything behind,” Steve yells back, and they’re treading on dangerous territory now. “You just did !”
Bucky opens his mouth, and then abruptly shuts it. He looks down, and to the side. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did.”
What’s that supposed to mean, thinks Steve, but he doesn’t ask it aloud. Instead, he tries to breath through the rage in his chest.
“I’m not signing up for it,” he says stiffly. “And we’re not paying for it.”
Bucky winces, but nods. They settle back into their previous positions, and don’t say a word for the rest of the afternoon.
Steve’s walking back from the Horn and Hardt swiftly one evening, later than usual, when he hears what could almost be a scream. It’s terribly cold, and he doesn’t really want to stop, but what if someone’s in danger?
So he follows the sound as best he can, straight towards an alleyway between an empty building and what appears to be a liquor store. Only slightly hesitant, Steve peers around into the gloom.
He immediately realizes the almost-scream was not a scream at all, but a moan . Most likely from the upright man, whose back is pressed against the alley wall. His mouth is gaping open, and every so often, he moans. He is quite obviously having his dick sucked by the young man on his knees in front of him.
Steve is frozen. Can’t move forward, can’t move back. He watches as the upright man comes, and the man on his knees pulls away. The man drops a couple coins into the kneeling man’s hand, and it’s only then he sees Steve.
Instead of running, the man smiles. “Want a turn?” he asks, gesturing to the man still on his knees.
Steve turns and leaves, picking up the pace until he’s wheezing. The cold air doesn’t help, and his lungs feel brittle. He has to pause, which means he has time to think about what he just saw.
Prostitution. Steve knows of it, but he’s never seen it. Once, maybe a year ago, a sailor asked him if he was a rent boy and Steve knew what he was talking about immediately. For a split second, he thought of saying yes. But Bucky was waiting for him at the end of the pier, and the whole thing sounded like a bad idea.
But what if--
Steve dismisses the notion, but it needles him as he finishes the walk back to the apartment. It may not be the easiest way to get money, but it certainly doesn’t require any qualifications, beside perhaps an attractive appearance. And in the gloom of an alleyway--how much could that really matter?
In the apartment, Steve considers himself in their cracked mirror for a moment. Blue eyes, red lips, blonde hair--Steve’s never considered himself attractive. He’s certainly been jeered at for his looks before, but mostly with reference to the fact he was probably queer. Steve can’t say they’re wrong, though he does wish they’d use other words besides those beginning with ‘f’.
Steve traces a finger over his lips. He’s never had sex before. He’s never given a blowjob. Hell, he’s never been to a queer bar, though he certainly knows of them.
It would be an easy--well, easier--way to earn some money. Quick. Convenient. Hidden.
But Steve steps away from the mirror and shakes his head slightly. Right now, in the quiet dark of the night, he can admit it to himself. He’s a romantic. He doesn’t want his first foray into sex to be with an anonymous stranger in the street, even if they’d pay him for the privilege.
He wants it to be with Bucky, if he’s being completely honest with himself. But that’s an even harder thing to think about.
February 1941
Steve is waylaid with a cold in the beginning of February, one that starts with a benign cough and soon ends with him in bed, laid up and delirious. Sometimes Bucky is there. Sometimes he’s not. Once, Steve sees Mrs. Barnes, but he’s sure he hallucinated that, like he hallucinated the bird nest on their windowsill, the tigers in the bedroom, and the spiraling shapes that spin across his vision. He’s out for three days, comes back to reality with some sense of clarity for two, and then is knocked out for almost an entire week.
When he surfaces again, swimming through molasses to blink his eyes open, Bucky’s face is above him, worried.
“You’re freezing,” Bucky says, and he sounds terrified. “Move over.”
Steve dutifully adjusts his position, bones and joints aching. And then--and then Bucky lifts up the covers and crawls into bed with him.
In his ill state, none of Steve’s usual boundaries are up. He unashamedly snuggles into Bucky’s chest. Bucky pulls him closer, rests one arm around his body.
“I’m right here,” he says, and it’s not long before Steve falls asleep again.
He wakes up for real the next afternoon, as belated sunshine comes in through the dirty window. Bucky is no longer behind him, but instead stands in the midst of the sun’s rays, facing the windowsill.
Steve attempts to say his name, but starts coughing uncontrollably instead. Bucky is by his side in an instant.
“Don’t try to talk,” he says, and hands Steve a glass of water, placing a broad hand on his back to help him sit upright. Carefully, hands trembling, Steve sips at the water. “You really had me worried there, pal.”
Bucky says it with a grin, but the shaky corners of his smile give him away, as do the bags under his eyes. Steve reaches out, and smooths his fingers over them. Bucky swallows, and turns his face away. Steve lets his hand drop, and Bucky turns back. He’s frowning now.
“I’m fine, Buck,” says Steve, but spoils the illusion by coughing.
“Don’t say that,” Bucky says sharply. “You almost died . Jesus, Steve, did you know I had the priest over? Saying your last rites because you were so cold--” He jerks away from the bedside, and goes back over to the window. Steve, without the support of Bucky’s hand, lies back down on the bed.
“Sorry,” Steve says quietly. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Bucky. But I swear, I’m feeling much better--”
Bucky laughs sharply, and Steve subsides. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s always been bad, his winter illness, but it’s been a while since it’s been this bad. And then, he had his mom to take care of him. Now it’s only Bucky.
Steve feels grateful, of course. But also terribly guilty. He wonders if Bucky still has his job, or if Steve ruined it for him.
Then, Bucky lets out a little gasp. “Look, Steve,” he says, and turns. Cradled in his hands is a bird--a robin, to be precisely. Clearly not a baby, but still content to sit completely still.
“Oh my god,” says Steve, struggling to sit up. “Is that a bird?”
Bucky treats him to a gentle eye roll. “Yeah. I found it on the sidewalk after you got sick. It must have hit something, and it couldn’t get up. So I figured, you know, I’d help it out.”
Steve understands what Bucky’s not saying almost immediately. He couldn’t help Steve get over his illness, so he channeled that feeling of uselessness into another hurt thing. Steve can’t even figure out how he feels. Mostly just--ill.
“Is it ready to fly again?” Steve asks softly. As if the bird heard him, it flutters in Bucky’s hands. Bucky looks at it, and then at Steve.
“Only one way to find out,” he says, and turns back to the window. He places the bird in the constructed nest, and then pries the window open. Steve watches his back muscles strain, and then winces as cold air rushes into the room. He buries deeper under the blankets, only then noticing that some of Bucky’s sheets have migrated over. He glances at Bucky’s bed, and is instantly uneasy. It’s almost bare.
“Ready, fella?” Bucky is saying, but not to him. He’s speaking to the bird, back in his hands again. Gingerly, turning his body so Steve can see, Bucky sticks his upper torso out the window. And open his palms.
The bird hesitates for a moment, before fluttering its wings. It rises to its feet, flaps again, and takes off.
There’s a moment where it looks like the bird is going to fall, a split second where it might tumble to the ground again. But it regains the memory of flight, and spirals up into the sky.
“You did it,” says Steve. “It’s better. You helped it get better.”
Bucky shuts the window, before turning towards Steve again. They lock eyes. “Maybe,” says Bucky quietly. “I hope so.”
March, 1941
“Frances broke up with me,” Bucky announces in the midst of dinner. It’s the first one they’ve had sitting down together since Steve got sick. He hadn’t lost his job, thank god, but it had been touch and go there for a while. He had to do some groveling to various managers, and was currently working more hours a week than he ever had. Bucky was convinced it was all going to end terribly. Steve, for once, was trying to look on the bright side. He wasn’t weak. He’d be fine.
So they’d had dinner together--at the kitchen table--after Steve had fully recovered and was up and about again. But it’s been a while since.
“Jeez, Buck,” says Steve, setting down his fork. “I’m sorry. When did that happen?”
“Just this morning,” says Bucky. “Caught me as I was leaving for work. I had a feeling she wanted to talk to me about something last night, but we never quite got around to it.”
“You were at her place last night?” It comes out more accusatory than Steve means it to. But he was worried when Bucky never showed up last night, and here’s the mystery solved.
Bucky smirks. “Yup,” he says, and winks. Then abruptly, the glee dies, though Bucky turns his face towards his dish, as if to hide it. “There’s always another girl around the corner, though.”
Steve bites his lip. Not for him. There’s not another anyone around the corner for him. He and Bucky are standing right on the same sidewalk, and while Bucky’s wondering what’s on the next block, Steve’s trying to stay right where they are. “Right,” he says shortly. “Of course.”
On Bucky’s birthday, the two of them get hilariously drunk. They go out dancing, which mainly consists of Bucky twirling girls across the dance floor while Steve stands in a corner. He makes an effort though, to dance once or twice with someone, just to make sure Bucky stays and gets to have a good time. It’s his birthday, after all.
It’s just about midnight when Bucky slides through the thinning crowd to Steve. He wavers a bit before thrusting a glass into Steve’s hand.
“Drink that,” he says enthusiastically. “Then we’re going home.”
“No girl?” asks Steve automatically. Bucky just grins with him.
“Rather spend my birth-night with my best guy,” Bucky says, clapping one hand onto Steve’s shoulder. Steve flushes and ducks his head. He takes a healthy swig of his drink, and then two more to finish it off. Bucky downs his all in one go.
They bounce off each other as they walk the eight blocks back to their apartment, laughing about past exploits and mishaps. They barely make it up the stairs, and when they finally stumble through the doorway, Bucky stumbles over to one of the cabinets, only to produce more alcohol.
“Don’t you think....we should sober up?” Steve slurs. He’s almost positive he’s never been this drunk before. He can’t think very well, or very hard about it right now. Instead, he looks at Bucky, who seems to be shining even brighter than usual. “Are you glowing?”
“Nahhhhhh,” says Bucky, and collapses onto the floor. “Just a--just a little more.” Steve can tell Bucky’s slurring, even if he’s not so sure about himself. “Stevie. Stevie.”
“Buck,” returns Steve, easy and amused. He gets down on the floor too, goes easily over to Bucky’s side. He tucks his head under Bucky’s arm, and throws one leg over Bucky’s legs. Bucky pulls him closer.
“This is...great,” enthuses Bucky. “You, me, our good pal--” He waves the bottle of liquor in the air and they both laugh.”You’re swell, Stevie. You’re a real stand up guy.”
“You’re better,” Steve slurs. “You’re the best .” Bucky just laughs. “No, ‘m serious. The best, Bucky. My best guy.”
Bucky flips over onto his side so he can face Steve. “You mean it?” he asks.
“Of course,” says Steve, confused. “Buck, I--”
He’s cut off by Bucky’s lips on his own. He gasps, and then sighs into it. Fuck, it’s better than he ever imagined. And he’s imagined plenty.
Steve can barely pull himself away. But through the haze of his alcohol-foggy mind, he manages it. “Bucky,” he says. “You don’t really want this.”
Bucky snorts. “Says you,” he slurs, and gets a hand down Steve’s pants. Instinctively, Steve yelps.
“Don’t!” he says, because he may be intoxicated as hell, but he can still recognize that. And recognize that Bucky’s even drunker than he is, and as much as Steve wants it, he can’t have it. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. Hell, Bucky’s so drunk he probably thinks he did go home with a girl.
Bucky rolls away and staggers to his feet. Steve watches him go. Gone is the smiling goof of a minute ago. “I gotta puke,” Bucky manages, and darts off into the hallway, presumably to do just that.
Steve lies back on their floor and lets the dizziness overtake him. He feels like shit, in more ways than one.
Eventually, Bucky returns, and the two of them, with no small amount of tension, manage to haul themselves off to bed. The next morning, Bucky makes no noise about what happened the night before. So almost in silent agreement, Steve keeps his mouth shut too.
April, 1941
Bucky returns from Passover with his family looking pale and withdrawn.
“‘Why haven’t you been going to synagogue, James?’” he says, throwing his coat onto one of their kitchen chairs, before collapsing into it himself. Bucky’s raised the timbre of his voice in order to sound like his mother. Steve, who waited up for Bucky because he thought something like this might happen, raises one eyebrow. “‘Why weren’t you home for Thanksgiving? Why are you still living with that Christian boy? Why haven’t you found a nice girl to marry? Why, why, why?’” Bucky rubs a hand across his face. “I’m sick and tired of the whole thing.”
“That’s why I didn’t go to Easter services,” Steve tries to joke. “At least if I stay home, Father Michael has to come here to berate me about my lack of attendance.”
Bucky smiles weakly. “They gave me money,” he says after a moment.
Steve’s eyes widen. “What?”
Bucky fumbles for his coat pocket, and then pulls out a small stack of bills. Steve’s eyes grown even bigger. He’s never seen that much money all in one place in his life. “Ma’s been hiding it under her mattress for years, apparently. Wanted me to have it.”
Steve’s instantly suspicious. Perhaps it’s uncharitable of him, but--”For what?”
“My dowry,” Bucky jokes. “I’ve gotta trade it in for furs and jewels.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh please,” he says dryly. “You need more than a dowry to be desirable.”
Bucky squawks. “You punk!” he cries, and slaps Steve on the arm with the money. Swiftly, Steve snatches it from him.
“It’s going straight into the save jar!” he says, wiggling it above his head. But Bucky doesn’t even protest. Slowly, Steve lowers the wad of bills. “You’re fine with that?”
“Well, I certainly don’t need a dowry to be attractive,” says Bucky, but he doesn’t say it like he thinks it’s funny. Steve sits down in the other kitchen chair.
“Bucky,” he says quietly. “What’s the money for?”
Bucky looks down. “They want me to get my own apartment,” he says, just as quietly. “Dad wants me to get a better job. Ma wants me to find a girl. And they think--if I’m living on my own, somewhere else--”
Steve feels sick. “They want you away from me.” He stands up unsteadily. “You should go.” He drops the money into Bucky’s lap. “You know I’m just weighing you down. Hell, you almost lost your job the last time I was sick--”
“ You almost lost your job,” Bucky points out, grabbing Steve’s arm. ‘Don’t pull that bullshit with me, Steve. I don’t want to leave you.”
“You’re going to eventually,” says Steve bitterly, saying what he’s known for so long. What he’s been resentful of for so long. “You’re a handsome guy, the gals love you, sooner or later you’re going to find someone and I’m going to be left behind.”
Bucky looks terribly hurt. “Steve, you’re gonna find a girl of your own. Sisters, remember? One for you, one for me. Adjacent house, and enough Barnes and Rogers kids to fill a baseball team.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” says Steve, pulling away. “We were children when we made up that plan. It’s not realistic.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be realistic!” Bucky explodes, leaping up out of his chair. “Maybe I don’t want to get married. Did you ever think of that?” He’s in Steve’s space now, crowding him against the kitchen counter. Steve can only stare up at him, breathing fast in the proximity. “Maybe I don’t want what everyone else wants.”
Steve’s mouth is dry. He swallows, in a attempt to wet it. “What do you want?” he asks hoarsely.
Bucky looks down at him. “Stop me if you don’t want this,” he says, and then he kisses Steve.
It’s nothing like the kiss a month ago. It’s the same in the fact it’s still Bucky--but this time there’s clear intent, clear desire. Steve lets himself sink into it, and when Bucky starts to pull away, grabs his arm.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, breathless. Bucky shakes his head.
“I just wanna stay right here with you.” For that, Steve kisses him again.
At some point, Steve realizes Bucky has placed him atop the counter, and he’s got his hands in Bucky’s hair, and Bucky’s got his hands around Steve’s waist. “Wait,” Steve manages, pulling away even though it kills him to do it. “We need to talk.”
“Okay,” says Bucky, and starts making his way down Steve’s neck. “Talk.”
Steve grabs Bucky’s hair and pulls it gently. Bucky looks up. “I’m serious,” he says. “I don’t want this to get messed up, because--” he hesitates. ‘Because we’re looking for different things.”
Bucky bites his lip. “Steve,” he says. “All I’ve really been looking for--since before I moved in--was you. The girls--I mean, I like girls--but I like you more. I always have. I always will.”
And that earns Bucky another kiss. Eventually, Steve draws away again. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” he admits. “Maybe I’ve looked at other people--but all I’ve ever seen is you. I want this for, well, forever, I guess.”
Bucky’s eyes sparkle. “Forever sounds good to me.”
They smile goofily at each other. Then Steve thinks of something else. “You’ll have to keep going out with women,” he says. “And I guess in the future--”
Bucky places a hand over his mouth. “I know we’ve got to discuss all that,” he says. “And we will. But it’s after midnight, and we’ve both got work tomorrow, and all I want to do right now is--” he flushes, a rare thing to see. Steve loves it. “Can I take you to bed?”
Steve’s mouth drops open. “Please,” he breathes. Bucky grins, and opens his arms for him. They go.
July, 1941
They go to Coney Island again for Steve’s birthday. It’s different this time, not just because they’re--together. “Partners,” Bucky had said, stroking Steve’s hair, late one night in bed. “Partners in crime.”
“Partners in everything,” Steve had said sleepily. Bucky had kissed him, and well, from there--
But the threat of war was in the air too. They had already had their first fight about it. Steve wasn’t unaware of the fact that they’d likely fight again.
When the two of them stand in the sand at the end of the day, pants legs rolled up and feet bare, Steve presses his shoulder against Bucky’s. Bucky presses back.
“Best date I’ve ever gone on,” says Bucky under his breath. “Wish I could kiss you right now.”
“Kiss me when we get home,” says Steve, filled with a thousand things he’s doesn’t dare say, not even in the fading light. He looks across the water, and imagines he can see the shores of England from here. Where the British army is marching on. “And better than the movies?’
Bucky chuckles, clearly remembering. “I told you no one would catch us.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You know, we have the money now.”
Steve blinks up at him. “The money for what?”
“The college course. The art one? You and me. There’s more than enough in the save jar, thanks to…” He trails off. “We could do it. It’s just a semester--”
“Yes,” Steve says, cutting him off. What has he got to lose? “Let’s do it.”
Bucky laughs and punches the air before turning to look at Steve. “Now I really want to kiss you,” he says. “This is going to be brilliant.”
“Well,” says Steve, grinning back. “Let’s go home.”
December, 1941
The radio’s on in class, the news humming through the air as everyone draws. They’re working on still lifes in black and white, so Steve’s managed to smear charcoal all over his hands. Next to him, Bucky looks over with a grin, and Steve has to fight the urge not to laugh. On his forehead, he’s got a solitary smear of ink.
“You’re a mess,” Steve whispers.
“You’re one to talk,” Bucky shoots back.
Steve smiles to himself as he goes back to work. It’s been wonderful, these past few months. Just him, and Bucky. Steve’s barely gotten sick, and they’ve actually made rent, and the new relationship between them is everything Steve’s ever wanted. So yeah. Even in the tumultuous climate, he’s pretty content.
But after every good turn, there often lies a bad one.
They’re nearing the end of class when the radio suddenly grows louder. Everyone turns and looks at the woman sitting next to it, her left hand on the dial, and the right covering her mouth in horror.
“...and the severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by enemy planes, undoubtedly Japanese,” the radio crackles. “The city of Honolulu has also been attacked and considerable damage done. This battle has been going on for nearly three hours. One of the bombs dropped withing fifty feet of the KTU tower. It is no joke. It is a real war.”
The reporter continues on, but Steve can only turn to stare at Bucky, still clutching a piece of charcoal. “We’re going to war,” he says numbly.
“We’re going to war,” Bucky repeats, eyes wide and horrified. Steve aches with the need to touch him, but he doesn’t dare. Perhaps Steve should feel frightened, or eager, but all he feels is numb. Somehow, he knows this is the end.
Outside, the sky is clear blue, spotted with clouds. And five thousand miles away, America’s involvement in World War II has begun.